


Luck, Wax, and The Occasional Goodwill Of Strangers

by OldboyJensen



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: ACAB, Found Family, Functionalism (Transformers), Gen, Homelessness, Police state, TF:SNAP Continuity, dumpster diving, look up thenamesblurrito's cybertronian food posts for what cicuitrus and stuff is, scavenging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27806524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldboyJensen/pseuds/OldboyJensen
Summary: A oneshot following the minibot gutterchild Sputter as she skips and stumbles her way into a string of weird luck that brings her to the gates of the JAAT as an enrolled student.Based in the fan continuity universe of Transformers: SNAP. Worldbuilding by @thenamesblurrito.tumblr.com. Sputter, Founder, This version of Wildspark, Buzzkill, and Express are OCs from me.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 11
Collections: TF:SNAP





	Luck, Wax, and The Occasional Goodwill Of Strangers

1

The number one key to survival in Iacon was pocket space. Any kind of carrying case was a no-go for day to day scavenging. Too much outside movement, too bulky, too much potential for attracting attention. No, a scavenger’s best asset was their ability to stash their loot in nook and cranny of their own armor. The best knew how to build that armor up enough for extra storage that wouldn’t impede movement. The gutter child currently digging through an office block’s trash was far from the best, but she _was_ still online.

Sputter checked over her shoulder again as she scraped the bottom of the tin again. A good, sharp palette knife was key number two. If she could only keep one tool in good condition, it was always that one. Most cycles she found herself literally scraping something resembling sustenance from inert disposal furnaces her small frame could contort into without too much risk of activating the smelting process, so the better the blade the less time she had to spend courting one of the more gruesome modes of deactivation. As it were, she’d found something a little more interesting than micronhusks and circuitrus rinds this cycle. The tin of frame wax was, of course, empty by middle class standards. Sputter, however, had a higher bar to the definition of the term.

“And under the highway, under the highway,” she muttered the Springo Sproingo scrap ballad to herself as she worked, “we watch them dance dance dance from our anti-matter barricade.”

The inside of the tin left no film on the back of her claw as Sputter tested it. Dry. Dry as she could mechanly get it, anyway. Her own tin, the one she kept tucked in that pocket between plating and wheel, was now officially a third of the way full. She tried not to be too giddy as she dropped the waxless one back down into the inedible pile of junk she would be leaving behind.

Three, two, one: Sputter swung herself face upwards and over the divider grate to, at a horizontal, brace and climb walk her way back to the chute opening. A can of energade on-the-wheel and a bag of rust bunnies consecutively thwacked into her faceplate. Sputter paused and cocked her head to better listen to the world outside the furnace. A beeping from her wrist reminded the Junker of her dwindling time limit, and she sucked in a vent before winching up the last few feet and launching herself out the chute’s mouth headfirst. Behind her, the chute sealed and lit up.

“That was too close for cygars,” Sputter admitted as she tucked the frame wax behind her neck, “next time? We eat _after_ we leave the furnace.”

Iacon’s undercity was vast and labyrinthine. Bots with poor directional skills and ignorance of areas to avoid, especially enforcer patrol routes, could easily get lost and into deep slag. Terrible things, things much worse than being out past routine street junk smelting schedules. Sputter ran through all of the things that could contribute to her being late to check-in, and had just settled on having to shake a beast-cop off her tailpipe when the unmistakeable whirr of a voice box recalibrating stopped her. Four fingers clicked together in agitation, and the size-3 adult loomed over Sputter’s minibot frame.

She grinned innocently up at him.

“Hello Founder!”

His eye narrowed, arms folding over his windshield. Sputter rocked back and forth on her pedes, hands clasped behind her back.

“…Hoooooww was your cycle?”

“You have soot on your helm.”

“Oh, I do? Haha, guess I didn’t see it up there! It’s hard having no mirrors. You wouldn’t understand,” she gestured to his rearviews.

Founder unfolded his arms and pulled Sputter into an embrace. She was surprised and a bit flustered before noticing the claw-tip pressed to her lips and the fact that the world was spinning somewhat. It took a moment for her to process the cheerful voices and clink of heavy armored plating. Founder had found a hiding place just above eye level and out of sight from the passing enforcers. He used his aforementioned mirrors to watch the three strolling by his previous lurking spot without a care in the world. At the side of one, a bobcat beast-cop padded, nose to the ground. She paused for a moment, ears pricked and nose in the air. Sputter’s optics glossed over as she sank deep into her processor. If Founder still had denta, he would be gritting them.

The leader of the patrol spat some command at the beast-cop, and they deferred. The group continued their patrol to disappear around a corner. An apprentice, Founder thought, running through his mental list of law bots for an identity. His sympathy was undermined by irritation and he swore vilely enough to earn a mock-gasp from Sputter.

“Our conversation isn’t over,” he grumbled and tucked the minibot under an arm, “you know what time we agreed you would check in, and _I_ know you have access to a clock.”

“And you know I think it’s pointless. I’m only sometimes remembering t’do it for your sake, I mean one of these cycles I’m _gonna_ wreck it. Everybot does, but I’m gonna from something completely jackhelmed and my own fault. Y’really don’t need to fuss on it all.”

Founder’s eyelight was little more than a slit, but he didn’t respond. They had gone around and around on the topic of Sputter’s fatalism too many times to count even with the correct number of digits. He was not the kind of ex-doctor she needed to talk to, clearly, but he also couldn’t find it in himself to take her advice and give up on the minibot completely.

The abandoned processing plant was so old as not to appear on city maps, and was consequently a common and relatively safe meeting place for the East Iaconian Junker community. Founder set Sputter down and waved to the nymphs and sparkling waiting for him at the back of the main factory floor. Sputter followed, but not without enthusiastically greeting everyone else taking a rest at the plant. Aside from those literally resting, she was kind enough to leave them to recharge. A small bundle of electrical grade copper wire landed at her feet, and Sputter thanked the darkness of the upper catwalks overhead. Chittery clicks responded.

“Is it true? Did you go furnace diving?” Buzzkill, a little yellow flight frame nymph asked Sputter before she had even sat sown, “Cleansweep wants to know if you got smelted just a little?? Is it fun? It’s cool, do you think I could-”

“No,” Founder and Sputter spoke in unison, exchanging a look.

“It’s not cool, and uh, I didn’t do it anyway! This is from. Uh. Someone dumped it on me,” she rubbed the soot between her digits.

Buzzkill, thankfully, looked disappointed.

“Aw, that’s boring.”

“That’s me. Boring McBoringbot. Total charge fest.”

Buzzkill’s attention had switched to the ration of something relatively edible Founder handed him before Sputter even finished speaking. He and the size five nymph Express showed each other their shares with unintelligible excitement and dug in. Sputter shook her head at the share offered to her.

“I already ate.”

Founder glared, and Sputter raised her hands in defense.

“I did! They need it more! Slag, _you_ need it more,” she muttered, “don’t think I don’t see you mxter no room to talk.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“It is with me.”

Founder shoved the food in Sputter’s direction.

“ _Take it._ ”

After a long, long, impossible game of ‘don’t blink,’ Sputter reluctantly accepted her defeat and gnawed on the vittles loud and aggressively solely out of spite. The little green sparkling mimicked Sputter’s noises and crawled into her lap. Someday Wildspark would be at least twice her size, but for now… Sputter put an arm around the bitling and snuck her a circuitrus rind she’d been saving when Founder’s attention was on the rowdy nymphs. Wildspark’s expression to the sour fruit was one Sputter found worth burning into the back of her memory files. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t keep the bitty from determinedly eating the whole thing.

At least somewhat re-fueled, Founder’s group mingled freely with the other junkers in the plant. Little Wildspark’s pedes barely touched the floor as she was passed from pseudo-carer to pseudo-carer who each vied for the bright, lively bitty’s attention. Founder kept on top of Express and Buzzkill whose clumsinesses were only matched by their desires to climb every rickety catwalk in the place. Sputter sat in a secluded corner. Watching. Listening. Committing it all to memory. Something to play-back later on a loop. To insert herself into, but better. The tin of wax pressed against her spinal corticae. Sputter stood, took one last look at the community, and walked, unseen, out the front entrance.

Much later, reunited with her fresh-start cache in the maintenance vent of a capillary elevator shaft, Sputter curled up tight in the dark and turned her jar of wax over and over in her hands. The third key to survival in Iacon, and the most quintessential, was to never get or be attached to any bot outside those who lived in your imagination.

2

Sputter never thought she would actually get this far. Not that she had meant to get this far. Or even go in the general direction that had brought her to this point. To be completely honest, staring up at the buildings of the JAAT complex, her processor was nearly splitting itself trying to process the events of the last few Orn. “Buckwild,” was a pretty good summation. The single carrying case over her shoulder was bulky and awkward against her front wheel, but Sputter had correctly figured that half the items she usually, literally, carried on her person might have been too awkward to explain to security. Or anyone, really.

“Okay Sputter, remember, you belong here. You know what you’re doing, you totally have been to school for your whole life. You’re not terrified! You’re excited! Smile! Don’t introduce yourself with junker pronouns! Don’t go in the trash, fancy bots don’t do that. Got it? Got it, okay just rem-“

“Are you going to stand there sputtering to yourself, or are you going to move out of our way?”

The only jet Sputter had ever spent any significant amount of time around had been Buzzkill. These three were a significant degree taller, and thousands of times haughtier. Sputter was bent nearly in half backwards just looking up at them.

“Well I _am_ Sputter so anything I do is sputtering to myself,” she responded cheerfully, not moving, “you have legs, right? Step over me or walk around, right? There’s a thing called single file, y’don’t gotta walk about in phalanx formation, do ya? Or issat a trine thing?”

For just a moment the red seeker’s face betrayed a sense of being taken aback. Sputter’s grin grew, and she sidestepped out of their way, gesturing them forward with a sweeping bow. Yes, this was easy actually! Just treat it as a bit. A long, high stakes bit.

It was, after all, just a very strange encore performance of Fancy McUppercust, Sputter’s well-to-do-persona. Fancy had shiny, well buffed and colorful armor that was _clearly_ not scavenged from recycling bins and self-fitted. She was clean and, though unfortunately framed as a minibot, clearly an upstanding member of Iaconian society. Fancy walked about fashionable districts of in broad daylight and greeted enforcers amicably without fear because this was, of course, where she had grown up and belonged. Fancy had lived with a trio of Creators through all stages of development. All of that constant love and support had obviously become cloying as Fancy grew into a youngling. She often rebelled against the smothering by taking up strange and filthy hobbies like rooting through her neighbor’s trash or collecting broken electronics. Crude, the neighbors thought out loud to each other, _where_ are that youngling’s creators? Quirks like that would only land the poor thing in some menial tech appointment or worse. Much more respectable to be a caddy to the elite like her frame indicates. That was always a good niche for an upperclass minibot.

It was, of course, the fact that Sputter had been forged a minibot that she’d been able to construct Fancy in the first place. Almost all other size classes, at some point in their development, had been around her size which meant that there was plenty of cast off armor in any residential district to choose from. A hand buffer, quarter full body paint canisters, and, most importantly, that blessed tin of wax meant that, with just a little self-soldering, Sputter became her own “Alien Primus-Patron.” Checking herself out in the reflective surface of a wall she’d buffed for this very purpose, “Fancy” had spun a few times, shifted her weight, struck a pose or twelve, and finally decided that this look was not only astral enough to get her access to the best trash in the city, but honestly? It was pretty slagging fly as [fuck].

And so Fancy set out on something of an adventure. Probably her last one, if she got caught. Sputter was ninety percent sure she would get caught the moment she stepped too close to respectable bots.

Not only did she _not_ immediately get dragged to the institute, Sputter found bots actually _apologizing_ when they bumped into her on the street.

“I should open a body shop with these results,” she murmured to herself, watching the size four roadsters continue on to wherever they were going, “never thought tech upgrades would actually translate.”

Half the first cycle was spent simply marveling at the sights of the city as seen from the actual streets. It was, in a word, horrific. The others around her paid no mind to the checkpoints or the sheer volume of surveillance drones let alone actual enforcers. At most, they seemed tired or irritated, but they were clearly also conditioned into compliance. And friendliness with enforcement. She watched in sheer fascination as civilians and cops exchanged pleasantries and personal information. An enforcer Sputter remembered gassing and herding herself and other Junkers out of a railway park for some senator’s photoshoot gave advice to a group of size two nymphs out with their caretaker. It was like a surrealist indie holovid. Whenever eyes turned her way, Fancy simply hummed some patriotic scrap to herself and skipped along like a bitling. Framism gave her an advantage in that way, at least.

Eventually, Sputter’s body called loudly enough for food that she began to actively hunt opportunities. The problem with daytime was that active scavenging would be a little too conspicuous, and Sputter didn’t know enough about these street junk furnaces to risk hiding out in one. She would have to stick to dumpster diving at private establishments in quiet hours.

“All I’m saying is that this whole charade is pointless.”

A gaggle of younglings passed by Sputter who noted their frame similarity and close physical proximity. Her nosiness sensors kicked into high alert, and she followed, unnoticed, at a decent distance.

“Universal testing? As if what, anyone going to those bit-rate schools is going to be worth a world class education?”

“I hear they’re even pulling students from off-world,” one of the others chimed in clearly excited to share in the gossip.

“Hah, they might be _testing_ in the colonies, but it’s just a formality to keep those councils happy. Can you imagine _Carcerians_ actually making it past entry?”

Sputter had absolutely no clue what the fuck these other kids were talking about, but it didn’t really matter the topic of conversation. What interested her was the way they went about talking to each other, the little expressive tics. The familiarity and proximity. She nearly didn’t notice that the group had stopped in front of a large, structurally beautiful building in what must have been some sort of social square.

“I’m more curious about Eukaris.”

“ _Please._ like I said, it’s only a formality.”

The siblings entered through sliding glass doors and Sputter realized her private audience was over. She was about to move on to keep hunting when something inside caught her optics and fuel tank. A line of bots was moving at some kind of counter and piling platters with bougie refreshments.

Edible refreshments.

_Fresh_ edible refreshments.

“Thirteen above primus’ kneecaps they got energon bagels.”

Sputter was inside and in line before she even registered entering. No time for thoughts or nervousness at the impressive amount of bots gathered in this annex hall: energon bagels consistently brought out the brave little toaster in her. And the excitable nymph bouncing on her pedes in anticipation. If she garnered any weird looks, Sputter was completely oblivious to them. All she saw was potential to actually fuel up completely for the first time in _Vorns,_ and her entire frame buzzed in excitement.

“Hoo! Full circuitrus!” She exclaimed on noticing a bowl of the fruit.

The serving bot behind the counter chuckled. At least, Sputter thought it was probably a chuckle. She could barely see over the counter to begin with, much less up to the bot’s face.

“Not used to a spread like this?” he asked, voice impossibly deep and jovial compared to what Sputter was accustomed to.

“Oh, uh, of course I am! Every time I go to functions, I see fruit. Clearly,” she huffed, “I don’t like what you’re implying, sir.”

She couldn’t see Maccadam grinning, but she _did_ notice that her serving of both healthy and treat options was the same size as much taller and bulkier younglings. She didn’t realize that everyone else asked for specific things and the server had just given her a bit of everything. Sputter was too busy sitting down on a real chair and eating real food. Less-perishable items she of course snuck into designated pockets for later or others.

“Can I have your attention please,” a fancy bot of some sort called out to the, now thick, crowd of younglings and their guardians in the reception hall.

For Sputter, the answer was “no,” and she tuned out whatever actual programming part of the function this interrupter spewed to focus on eating. As much as her instinct was to shovel and run, living around Founder had at least instilled a knowledge of proper digestive techniques. Or, more so, a little voice in the back of her processor chastising her for downing an entire energon bagel practically without chewing.

“You’re going to make yourself sick and lose what you’ve gained,” imaginary Founder scolded.

“Fine, fine,” Sputter grumbled to herself and took actual bites of the rest of the plate.

The taste was more than heavenly. It was electric- her taste buds buzzing with energy they had missed for a long long time. Sputter could swear even the clarity of her vision was improving somewhat, and the gears in her processor sped significantly. The protagonist in her long running mental story did sick flips through a field of magma geysers which impressed her slow burning love interest slash rival to the point that they clutched a fist to the plating over their spark and exclaimed an emphatic, “[hot damn].”

“You don’t want to miss this,”

A voice from outside finally broke through and Sputter whipped her faceplate left and right before finally craning her neck to look up behind her. The serving bot was out from behind his counter. She did not know he was allowed to do that.

“I don’t?”

“No, I don’t think you do,” Maccadam gestured to the other younglings, who were now concentrated in a line by a large inner door, “once you get inside, answer honestly.”

“Once I get inside?”

He nodded with a smile. Sputter looked down at her now empty plate, her fans on high and her instincts screaming at her to run.

“There _will_ be another reception later. More refreshments.”

Well. If she was going to go out on this note, Sputter may as well do it on a full tank. She stood and, begrudgingly, placed the empty plate in the trash. It was tin…she could use it…

Sputter made a mental note to steal a couple plates after whatever assembly function thing she was about to attend and scooted over to the group by the door. She found herself behind the siblings from earlier who were now oddly subdued and buzzing with nervous energy. Red flags. Sputter looked over at the server, whose wink she missed but thumbs up she did not.

“Once you’re inside…”she murmured.

The bot at the door looked down their spectacles at Sputter, clearly unimpressed.

“Name?”

“Solus.”

The bot checked his list, saw dozens of Soluses, sighed, and gestured unenthusiastically for Sputter to enter. She did so with a curtsy and one last look at the serving counter before finding herself in a dark, large room. Hundreds of makeshift cubicles met her optics, and another bot ushered her into a mini-bot sized one. Sputter’s fans broke the sound barrier.

“Primus tail-pipe,” she whimpered as the door to the cubicle clicked closed behind her. A seat and a desk with its own light source awaited.

With nothing better or more interesting to do, the trapped youngling hopped up on the seat. She yelped as it rotated under the force and weight. After a moment, Sputter realized she was on… a spinny chair.

After nearly losing her recently aquired fuel by taking full advantage of this fact, Sputter finally took stock of the items on her desk. There was the lamp, of course, there was a stylus, some material she vaguely recognized from her brief stint in primary school as [scratch paper], and a large data pad open to a page with personal information blanks to fill in. Whatever the step after the sound barrier was, Sputter’s fans reached it.

Name, primary guardian’s name, location of eruption, frame-type, etc etc...

[Fuck].

“Once you’re inside, answer honestly…” she muttered to herself and began chewing on the stylus.

True honesty was generally impossible at this point, but Sputter took the stylus out of her mouth and began.

  1. **Sputter of Iacon**
  2. **Non-Applicable**
  3. **Unsure**
  4. **Minibot Caddy**



**Student ID number:** 0110001001101111011011110110001001110011

Oh this was quite possibly the second worst idea Sputter had ever had, but it wasn’t like she could leave. She’d tried.

And there was something about that server. Something deep in her spark chamber, despite her processor crying out against it, screaming that this was exactly why they’d left the Eastern commune, that comfort was a painful illusion, trusted him completely.

The next page on the data pad was an “instructions on how to fill out” that Sputter’s optics nearly glazed over trying to read. Nearly. It was when she saw the example question regarding biological function of the anterior pump that her focused snapped back in place. A puzzle??

The next page, covered in engineering and problems with holographic projections, confirmed it, and Sputter’s mouth parted into a big honking smile. It was a survey puzzle! Sputter rolled her neck and dug in. This was a _much_ better problem to hyper-focus on than the high probability of being captured by enforcers for _sure._

\-------------

Now, in the shadow of the JAAT, Sputter trailed after the seeker trine that was loudly gossiping about and badmouthing her, drowning their words out with sheer wonder yet again at how weird her luck was.

“Ah, young Sputter!”

The minibot whipped around to find a familiar bot waving and striding toward her. Her composure completely crumbled in a nanosecond as she recognized the server from the reception. Yes, they had had another conversation after the test, but no, she had never stopped to think that maybe the very academy that was hosting a test in a well to do district might appeal to bots by offering a sampling of the kind of fair they could expect access to at school.

Maccadam laughed and placed a gigantic servo gently on the shocked youngling’s helm.

“It’s good to see you found us after all.”


End file.
